


Hoarders: Buried Alive

by redfantasyfox



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redfantasyfox/pseuds/redfantasyfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins has been working with hoarders for years, but he's never seen a case like Smaug's.  Can he create peace between the confused youth and Thorin Oakenshield, who wants nothing more than to put his house to the torch if it means ridding it of his unwanted tenant? And if not, who will he choose to save: the man who's slowly teaching him about the beauty in life's small things, or the man who needs to be shown them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Secrets and Lies

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by TLC's reality show by the same name. If you cannot visualize the depths and dangers of compulsive hoarding, I absolutely recommend you watch the first ten minutes of any one episode. It will shock you.

Number 4 Scipio Lane stands like an ancient relic in the dead center of the empty street. It's quiet here, but the air is charged with the terrible secrets that almost seem to leak from under the cracked and dusty windows. The front door is stained a faded white colour, and the lone hinge it teeters on creaks whenever the wind blows. Worse, even as Bilbo watches, tiles slip from the roof and smash into the browning garden, and the chimney, clearly already in great disrepair, sways like a pendulum threatening to snap the string it swings on. Tearing his eyes from the house and back onto the street, where only a single shadow rests across the asphalt from a tree standing awkwardly in middle of the sidewalk, Bilbo waits for the man he is expecting to meet here. He checks his voice-mail again, to verify, and the voice on the other line strikes him as it always does as somewhere between murderous and exasperated. He has a name, Thorin Oakenshield, but looking him up on the internet has proved only that he's male and that he travels a lot for business. 

It's not until almost half past two when the silver sports-car rolls down the street. It's occupant is obvious, namely because of the way the vehicle so sharply clashing with the decaying remains of broken buildings that clutters the lane-way. It pulls up and parks just behind Bilbo's car, but the windows are tinted just enough that Bilbo cannot see inside. He steps out of his own car, shielding his eyes from the beating afternoon sun, and begins his trek across the road.

Thorin meets him halfway, a folder of papers tucked under his arm and a disposable camera peaking out of his back jeans pocket. He's taller than Bilbo expected, almost a head more than he, and his face is so alarmingly handsome that it disarms the younger man into nearly stumbling. Thorin offers his hand, the cuff of his shirt rolled at the elbows, and Bilbo shakes it in turn, noting how small his hand appears in contrast to such a dominating figure.

"Thank you for coming," Thorin says, his voice tight. "Did you bring a breathing mask?"

"I, uh, yes," Bilbo manages to say, clearing his throat. "But surely that won't be necessary."

Thorin frowns, the line creasing his brow fitting there as if along a rut. "You haven't seen inside yet."

Together, the two men advance towards the house. The driveway dips in odd places, probably from drainage problems, and the front steps have risen completely out of the foundation. Bilbo mimics Thorin and pulls the mask out of his pocket, watching as the other man gingerly eases open the door. Bilbo peers inside, and what he sees there is enough to steal all the breath from his lungs.

From floor to ceiling, wall to wall, corner to corner, every inch of the house is filled with things. There's upended boxes, there's legless chairs and leafless tables, there's cans, there's books, there's plastic bags, and overwhelmingly there's just junk. A corner of an off-pink couch reveals what is bracing the mass of the things in the front foyer, but into the sitting room to their right is nothing but a sea of mismatched clothing and shoes, piled so high and so thick it could rival a small hill. And below it all lies the floor, completely hidden from sight, no matter where the eye dares to look.

Bilbo, with a shaking head, raises his mask to his face. Thorin does the same, but his rage is poorly disguised, even behind the white plastic. He turns to Bilbo, a questioning look in his eyes that says, "This is what I hired you for, this is your job. How are we going to fix this?" Bilbo doesn't answer him directly, but instead sidesteps him and begins to climb the mountain blocking the front entryway. Thorin calls out something, perhaps a warning, but Bilbo only looks back to wave him onward. 

Every rocky foothold they gain knocks loose items into the air, leaving them to bounce and slide through the mess until they become indistinguishable in it once more. There is no sound besides their breathing and that of falling clutter, and occasionally Thorin cursing, words Bilbo can guess at with great accuracy depending on the man's expression. Travel is slow and labourous, and twice they have to backtrack and try a different route before they can make any real headway. When they finally get to the top of the pile, Bilbo sits down on the top of a sideways closet, Thorin kneeling on the back of a bookcase across from him.

 _This is the worse I've ever seen_ , Bilbo wants to say, but instead he asks, "How long has it been like this?"

"I wish I could tell you," Thorin replies, shaking his head angrly. "Too long."

"And about how much of it is yours?"

Thorin snorts. "The house is mine, the property is mine, but almost everything in it is not."

Bilbo nods, coming to further understand Thorin's position. They sit in silence for a while, glancing around the crowded space between them, and watch for the inevitable. Every now and again something can be heard falling, from another room, another pile, another hill, and the resounding crash echoes through the rafters like distant earthquakes. It's eerie and unsettling, but honestly, not unlike anything Bilbo has seen before, if only on a smaller scale.

"Thorin," he says finally, softly, trying to keep his client as civil as possible. "Can you, please, explain to me again how exactly it got to be this way?"

Thorin hesitates, and at last Bilbo sees the exhaustion in his eyes, the defeat, the hopelessness. "I'm a defense attorney," he explains, "and around this time last year, I won my first big case. It was all over the news, went international. I had interviews with radio stations and talk shows and newspapers, the whole lot." He tries to sit up, straighten out his back, but his head hits the ceiling and he gives up. Rolling his shoulders instead, he rubs one of his bare arms with his free hand, his distress evident only in this nervous motion. "And then maybe...six months ago? The lady who had hired me to defend her son, in that case, she passed away, and in her will she left me three of her nine houses. One of the three was this one." He looks around the room again, as if he can still see the state it used to be in, the dream he once hatched in this very spot. "I thought I could turn it for a profit, give it off to one of my nephews, even, but the construction crew I hired bailed after the first week without telling me. I was working another case at the time, so I was out of the country for four months. When I came back--"

Suddenly, a shout breaks out from the room behind Bilbo and they both turn, Thorin's hand shooting to his side where presumably he keeps his gun. Bilbo, in the line of fire but unafraid, calls back, but neither of their words seem to be understood by either party.

Slowly, only a little at a time, the top of a head appears in the doorway. It's followed by a hand, then most of a face, and finally part of a torso. The man is pressed almost completely flat against the ceiling because of the amount of stuff piled in that room, but even in that weird position, he still manages to look terrifying. He bares his teeth, half of them gold, and makes a sound similar to the hiss of a large and pissed off cat.

"Mr. Smaug?" Bilbo tries again, lifting his mask away from his face for a moment so he can speak more clearly. "Mr. Smaug, I'm Bilbo Baggins. I called you yesterday? I'm the therapist and personal organizer hired by Thorin Oakenshield to help clean out his house."

Smaug mumbles something that is obviously not very kind, and then hisses again. "Don't be touching my things," he says, his accent heavy from a place Bilbo cannot identify. "Mine, all of it, mine."

"Yes, yes, I understand," Bilbo replies, trying to edge closer to the doorway where Smaug is lying. "Can we talk about this though? Will you come out to speak with us about this?"

"Don't waste your breath," Thorin snaps, grabbing Bilbo somewhat roughly by the arm. "Why can't we just kick him out and call a dump trunk?"

If anything, that seems to even more enrage Smaug. He lunges from the doorway into the room where Thorin and Bilbo are, his mountain of stuff swallowing him like quicksand. When he appears again, he's clinging to a twisted metal bat, which he waves around threateningly. "I'd like to see you call them peoples," he spits, the saliva staining the already tattered black jacket he's wearing over his thin frame. "You can't go throwing my stuff away. I know my ways."

"Your ways?" Shouts Thorin, his own anger crashing back in like a tsunami. "This is my house, you crazed lunatic! What gives you any rights to just fill it with your crap?"

"My treasures!" Smaug whines, retreating a step but still brandishing his weapon. "Mine, all mine."

To Bilbo's horror, Smaug recoils and throws the bat, venom practically dripping from his studded tongue. His eyes flame a ghastly red, red like fire, red like blood, and all at once he starts throwing everything in reach, hurling it with no regard of where it goes or who it hits.

Thorin cries out and draws his gun, but Bilbo slides in front of him and takes the blunt of the onslaught. "Drop it, Mr. Oakenshield," he says over his shoulder, deathly calm. "Just drop it." Covering his face with his arm, Bilbo begins edging closer to where Smaug is crouching, waving nothing but his other hand in an attempt of stilling his attack.

Smaug stops, but only of his own accord. He drops like a large child onto his mountain, clutching a long striped scarf in his hands. The item seems to rob him of his fury, and then he's nothing but the twenty or so man he is, alone, vulnerable, and defenseless.

Bilbo eventually manages to reach his side, and gently touches the youth on the shoulder. "Hey," he whispers, "everything's going to be okay." He can feel his foot sliding into the pile, being scratched by things unseen, but he doesn't care. This is what he lives for. "Listen, alright? I'm going to get you out of this mess. I'm going to make sure no one throws away your treasures, or breaks your things, or hurts you. But you have to promise me something, something in return, okay?"

Smaug looks up at Bilbo, his eyes back to their turquoise, his matted hair drooping like sad puppy ears. "What do you want?" He whispers, his voice broken.

Bilbo gently rubs his back. "You need to let me help you."

As Smaug considers this, Bilbo watches Thorin in the reflection of a cracked mirror glance down at the scene before him, something indescribable on his face. Bilbo has tried to explain his methods over the phone to him, but Thorin has been adamant--you can't reason with hoarders, he said, they're all a lost cause.

But Smaug, turning into Bilbo, rests his head on his shoulder and closes his eyes. He looks so young suddenly, so tired, so worn out. "Help me," he whispers. "Please, please help me."

Bilbo holds him closer and whispers reassuringly to him. "Don't worry Smaug," he says, "I'm not going to leave you. I'm going to help you out of this. I'm going to make everything better, I'm going to make everything right." Turning his head, he meets Thorin's eyes, glacier blue and cold as ice. "I promise you that, if it's the last thing I do."


	2. Buttons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this new chapter took me so long, but between the new semester and the starting of "The Truth About Forever", this story has really fallen through the cracks. Thank you nevertheless for your support and readership! I hope to keep more up-to-date on this in the time to come.

Rain, heavy and thick, mists the pavement along Scipio Lane like fog over a haunted forest. Violent winds are all that it falters to, bending like phantoms in the dark afternoon, reaching like the hands of the undead towards all that draw near. Pulling up directly in front of number four, Bilbo hesitates with his hand on his car door, somewhat intimidated by the furious raindrops smashing into the windshield. Looking out through the glass, all he can discern of the landscape is darkness, darkness so complete it obscures even the streetlamps from sight. He opens his dashboard compartment and rolls his tiny black umbrella between his fingers, gazing out at where the end of the road should be, waiting for Thorin’s headlights to appear out of the gloom. After half an hour, however, with still no sign of him, Bilbo courageously pushes open the door and steps out into the downpour.

In a heartbeat he’s soaked to the bone. Water sneaks around the edges of his jacket and umbrella to slither along every inch of his skin, chilling him down to his toes. He battles the wind on route up the driveway, forced to walk slowly because of the dips in the concrete he doesn’t notice until he begins to sink into them, but once he reaches the front porch he’s faced with another problem: the door is locked, and he has no key.

Banging on the aging wood, Bilbo calls out for Smaug. The young man is expecting him, so maybe he’s waiting somewhere near the door? On the other hand, Bilbo realizes, where is there to wait besides on an unsteady mound of broken furniture? Maybe it was better no one came to answer his calls.

Bilbo tries the handle, and after a bit of jiggling, the lock gives under his insistence. Easing it open, Bilbo is struck by the sudden lack of smell, as if everything has been diffused by the rain. Shoving inside, Bilbo gently closes the door behind him, leaving it unlocked for all the difference it made. Propping his umbrella against a chipped flowerpot, Bilbo slips off his jacket and stares up into the house.

“Smaug?” He calls out in earnest now, the room occasionally illuminating to a flash of lightening. “Smaug? It’s Bilbo! Hello?”

Even holding his breath brings Bilbo no response, so with more apprehension than he’d like to admit, he begins his climb up the mountain. It’s more difficult this time around, without Thorin to pull him up when he fell behind or to steady him when things fell from under his feet, but slowly and surely he makes it to the top. When he reaches the broken bookshelf he had rested on before, he stops again, once more admiring the room and the clutter that fills every inch of space within it.

By the looks of it little has changed, but now the leaks in the roof are evident from the rivers that roll along the walls. In one place the water drips directly onto a mound, seeping between the cracks created by the loose objects or simply accumulating in small pools. Although he knows better, Bilbo keeps his mask in his pocket, hoping the sign of good faith will comfort Smaug. It’s not much, but next to openly consoling him, Bilbo is still too unsure about what else he can do, how far he can push.

Bilbo sits in his place for a long time, thinking. He tries to imagine a day in Smaug’s life, living here, weaving this way and that through the chaos, moving groceries, folding laundry. How was it even possible without any semblance of a normal living space? Was his very own seat really a table in Smaug’s eyes? An ironing board? Or is it all just a sea to him, something that rises and falls without his knowledge, something that he acknowledges is underfoot but no longer can actually see? Bilbo pulls out his notebook and writes a few things down, some questions, some concerns, but otherwise just sits, staring off into what of the other rooms he can see, and listening, listening to the drip-drop of water or the peels of violent thunder that shake the house to its foundation.

Eventually Bilbo hears a sound, deep in the house. It could just be something falling, something in the piles shifting, but when he hears it again, Bilbo realizes it’s laughter. Short, high-pitched, and somewhat forced, but it’s laughter all the same. Turning towards it, he begins to make his way through the hoard, ducking under a three-legged table that frames part of the path and dodging a toppling stack of books around a corner. The darkness, of course, helps nothing, but the light-switches on the wall produce little save a faint buzzing overhead, and fearful he’ll start an electrical fire, Bilbo just decides to leave them alone.

The next room he enters looks like it was a kitchen once, but only the uppermost cupboards and the top of a fridge are visible anymore. There’s a window against the far wall, and were there sun, the light would filter in on a small collection of plants, well-watered and healthy, surprisingly. A garden? Bilbo wonders, marking it down on a fresh page with his pen. Curious.

Drawing close to the back room of the house, Bilbo calls out again. At first there’s a clear hesitation, but then Smaug cautiously appears on the other side of a pile. His eyes are gentle, this time, fearful, almost. He’s wearing the same clothes as the last time Bilbo saw him.

“Do…do you need help?” Smaug asks, gesturing to the non-existent path Bilbo is following.

“I guess so, yes, that would be lovely,” Bilbo admits, steadying himself against some plastic containers. “Is there a better way?”

With elegance and grace Bilbo had not expected from such a spindly, disorganized man, Smaug slips around his things and offers Bilbo his hand. Together they avoid the worst of the collection, the pitfalls Smaug marks out for the future, the dangers lurking just feet beneath them, and make it to what, Bilbo supposes, is Smaug’s bedroom.

It’s a shabby space, and all-in-all, makes Bilbo’s blood run cold. It’s structured like a nest, rows and rows of things lining a central cove, defined by a stained mattress, a threadless chair, and an old television. Smaug pats a spot on his bed, helping Bilbo climb there, before dropping back into his own seat, returning his attention to the tv.

“What are you watching?” Bilbo asks, noting the horrible reception. The picture is so out-of-focus that all that can be made out is a few spots of colour here and there, and on occasion the time in the top right hand corner.

“The news,” Smaug whispers, his face expressionless. “There’s going to be a lot of rain today.”

They sit in silence for the while, the crackling of the set all that fills the air between them. Smaug occasionally shifts, revealing holes in his worn pants, and when he flexes his hands, his bones arch under his skin. After a while, when Bilbo can take it no longer, he gets to his feet and takes off his shirt.

Smaug turns, watching him. “What are you doing?” He asks, staring at the extended cloth like it might be something to add to his mess.

“Please,” Bilbo says, “will you wear this? It might be a bit big for you, but, at least you can actually say it’s a shirt.”

Smaug takes it carefully, playing with it between his fingers, tracing the seams with his knuckles. “It’s a nice colour,” he notes, marking the faded grey. It takes him a while, but eventually he shrugs out of his patched jacket and fraying t-shirt. The sight of his naked torso takes Bilbo’s breath away.

“When was the last time you ate?” Bilbo asks, counting Smaug’s ribs and bruises. “Or seen a doctor?”

“I don’t like those peoples,” he replies, shoving his head through Bilbo’s shirt top. “And food…sometimes, I guess.”

“So not to—”

Suddenly a loud exclamation explodes from the next room over. Smaug jumps, tumbling over the back of his chair and into the chaos, scrambling next to hide behind Bilbo. He bends himself into a tiny ball, hugging his knees, but despite his fear, his eyes are red again, burning hot, red hot.

Placing a hand on his arm, Bilbo fixes his attention in the direction of the noise. “Thorin?” He shouts. “Are you alright?”

There’s a pause, then maybe a sigh. “I’m fine,” is the stiff reply. “How in the hell did you get back there?”

“Just…be careful. Walk slowly.”

There’s another curse now, making Smaug tense all the more behind him. “He hates me,” Smaug says into Bilbo’s ear, his words less than murmurs. “He’s wants me gone. He wants me dead.”

Bilbo turns sharply at that. He isn’t sure what to say, what exactly won’t be a lie, but is saved from having to say anything at all when Thorin finally stumbles into the room. His suit jacket is torn in two places, and from the look on his face, nothing about his situation has pleased him.

“Bilbo,” he greets, cocking his head just a touch. It’s more than just a courtesy, though, it’s a warning. Don’t expect anything more polite from me, his eyes say, and don’t forget for an instant that it’s only your promises standing between this house and a demolition team.

Nodding in silent recognition of those words, Bilbo gently rubs Smaug’s arm. “I’m glad you could make it,” he says, dropping his gaze. “The storm didn’t keep you?”

“Honestly?” Thorin snaps, frowning. Oddly, though, there isn’t much anger in his tone.

As the silence settles back in again, creeping like shadows along a crumbling ruin, Bilbo considers exactly what he’s going to do today. He has a lot of questions for Smaug, a lot of things he’d like to test, but with Thorin here, it only makes the youth nervous and hostile. Turning to him reveals he hasn’t moved an inch, and Smaug’s eyes are still enraged, engulfed in his own fiery anger.

Suddenly, “Would you like tea?”

His expression hasn’t changed. His tone is cold as ice. Nevertheless, it is an offer.

“Okay,” Bilbo says, too weary of Thorin’s hard look to give it much more notice. “And you Thorin?”

The lawyer folds his arms across his chest, unafraid to show his discomfort. “No,” he states simply. “I won’t touch anything from this blasted place.”

Smaug, to his credit, does not respond to the jab. Instead he simply crawls up the walls of his hoard behind him and treks into the kitchen, slipping by almost along the ceiling to avoid where Thorin is presently sitting. Once he’s out of earshot, Bilbo nearly gets to his feet to follow after him when Thorin abruptly rises first.

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” He demands, taking off his jacket and tossing it at Bilbo. “Is that professional?”

Bilbo smiles lightly. Before he can respond though, a cry rips out from the kitchen. “Thief!” Comes Smaug’s screech. “Thief!” There’s a loud clatter, the sound of something smashing, and then deathly silence.

Shooting the hardest of glares at Thorin, Bilbo rushes past him. “Smaug? Smaug, what—” Spotting him curled up again, nestled in amongst broken china, Bilbo kneels at his side, stroking his shoulder. “Hey, hey, it’s going to be alright. Have you lost something?” But if Smaug has an answer, he does not respond, only shrinks even deeper inside himself.

Thankfully, Thorin at least has the dignity to look slightly abashed when Bilbo whirls on him. “We need to talk. Now.”

Outside, the rain is even worse, the wind near a torrential gale. Bilbo stands firm through it all, frustration hardly contained within him. “What do you think you’re doing?” He demands, waving his finger at Thorin. “Do you have any idea how much you’re affecting him? Do you think this is funny, taking his things, thinking he won’t notice?” He bites his lip, trying to calm down, but it’s not working. “I’ve known people like you all my career. You think this is just something they can stop doing, something they can just convince themselves to get over? Hoarding isn’t like that! It’s a mental illness, do you understand? He needs care, he needs support, he needs help.”

Thorin furrows his brow, but otherwise says nothing.

“Are you listening to me?” Bilbo asks him, brushing water from his eyes. “Let. Me. Do. My. Job.”

As if he’s heard nothing, Thorin reaches through the rain to the buttons on his coat, doing them up along Bilbo’s chest. “You’ll catch a cold,” is all he says. He moves his eyes up, slamming them into Bilbo’s, meaning nothing and yet insinuating everything. It’s like being hit by a two-tonne truck.

Bilbo takes a step back, staggering a little. “I just need to make things very clear with you,” he manages, pulling strength to speak from somewhere unaffected by those shocking, overwhelmingly blue eyes. “You may have hired me, but I’m not here for you. I was never here for you.” Pushing the door open, he returns inside, looking back only once. “I’m here for him.”


	3. In the Eyes of Others

With the suddenness of a winter storm, classical music begins filtering out of the radio. Bilbo stares at the dark space around it for over ten minutes before connecting the lyrical sounds with his alarm, and with a small sigh, taunt with exhaustion, he rolls himself out of bed. The warmth within the tangle of his sheets tries to hold him, to pull him back in, but he fights his way out, bullying himself into wakefulness. There’s never time for sleep—people need him.

Rubbing his eyes, he watches as morning sunlight dances through his windows, the thin blue curtains doing little to stop the playful glow from illuminating one half of the room. Standing for a moment in the golden rays, Bilbo closes his eyes. He imagines himself back at Scipio Lane, waking up beside Smaug; he pictures the youth curled up on the other side of the aging mattress, huddled beneath a tattered excuse for a blanket, his arm under his head and a book tucked under his pillow. When Bilbo opens his eyes he can see every detail in the scenario, every object on the verge of tumbling down on his head, every crack in the mound that allows in the morning sunlight. Yes, for a single moment he can almost understand, almost catch the allure of waking in such a place, surrounded by things he loves, things he cherishes. But then the moment passes and he is alone, standing on the cold, hard floor of his room, a chill creeping in from under the door.

At half past eight he makes himself a cup of coffee, sprinkling just a touch of flavouring at the bottom of the cup. The smell fills his kitchen, curling his toes, colouring his hair. He breathes it in for a long moment, letting the heat flood his hands, seep down his arms. He eventually drinks, but the resounding silence left by the coffee machine is eerie, like a ghost having just slipped out of sight. Bilbo bites his lip, his desire for breakfast fading more and more with each passing moment. 

It starts out as just a feeling, just a small stone that sloshes around in his gut, threatening to overturn and burn his insides. He ignores it for a while, steadies his breathing, even eases onto his couch, throwing his legs over the armrest. But the sensation does not lessen, and if anything, intensifies.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

At quarter to nine Bilbo calls Thorin. It may be too early for such a connection, but Bilbo forgoes the need for courtesy and lets the line ring out. It reaches voice-mail so he tries again, struggling to keep from his mind the image of the lawyer laying haphazard in his bed, the sheets strewn across his body, peaceful sleep shattered by an early, unexpected call. Still, when he only gets voice-mail by the third time, Bilbo tries his other phone. He shouldn’t technically have the number, wasn’t meant to ever call it, but he does anyway.

Thorin picks up on the first ring. “Hello?” Bilbo is very aware of how alert his voice sounds, how tense, like cloth on the verge of being torn in two.

Staying calm, Bilbo replies casually, “good morning.”

There’s a moment of startled hesitation, then something can he heard shifting on Thorin’s end of the line, followed by a hasty cough. “Mr. Baggins? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

It’s been three weeks of this, meetings at the house, consultations at each other’s offices, and still the formalities just won’t completely drop. “Bilbo,” he corrects offhandedly, unable to keep himself from at least attempting to familiarize their relationship. “I, um, I’m sorry for calling you like this, so out of the blue, but…has Smaug called you? Have you heard from him recently?”

There’s another pause, another drawn out inhale of breath that escapes through pursed lips, when, finally, Thorin relents. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he begins, “but, actually, I’m here with him now.”

“And where is here?” Bilbo all but demands, knowing the answer before he hears it.

“Police station. West side of town. Should we wait for you?”

“Please. I’ll be right there.” Hanging up without saying goodbye, Bilbo jogs to his car. He had braced for a lot of things this morning, but not this.

 

/

 

The station is almost entirely empty at this hour, the few still in holding mostly drunks or teens waiting for transfer. Bilbo nods at each officer he passes, eager to get inside. His face is flushed with haste, his steps twice his heart-rate, his breathing quiet but laboured. The doors part for him automatically, shunting him into the brightly lit entrance hall, filled with plastic blue seats and a large glass-enclosed desk against the wall. Behind that is an older woman, her hair tied back in a tight bun, her lips lined with agitation. She glances over Bilbo’s ID like she’s seen it a hundred times before, staring him up and down like a child being considered for slavery. After a moment she nods, pressing a button just out of sight. The light above another door flares on, and Bilbo is admitted inside.

Thorin is waiting there for him, his one hand clutching an assortment of government papers and the other holding up a pale Smaug. The youth is bent at the hip, cringing as if from a terrible blow to the stomach, and his hair is greased with something black and green. Neither looks up as Bilbo enters, but Thorin mumbles something that could pass as an acknowledgement were it not for the disinterested glare in his eyes.

“I can’t hold them off any longer,” he eventually says, answering Bilbo’s question before he even has a chance to ask. He carefully guides Smaug into Bilbo’s open arms, who cradles the taller man like a rag doll. “The city knows about the house; they’ll be coming for an inspection in four days. After that, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before they send in teams to just empty it out.” He slips his now empty hand into his pocket, where the screen of his phone can be seen glowing through his pants. “In the mean time, they want to send Smaug to an institution—they truly believe nothing else will help him.”

Bilbo is silent, hearing without really listening. His attention is concentrated entirely on Smaug, who’s frail as rice paper and as weak as a twig. There’s a smell about him, old and musty like the bottom shelf of produce at the grocery store that’s never restocked. His eyes are dim, almost lifeless, and his hands tremble just enough to make the rest of him shake as well. The shirt he’s wearing is the one Bilbo lent him, although truthfully he’s hardly caught in anything else.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says, talking over the lawyer. “Can I ask you something?”

Thorin pauses, turning the sheet of paper he had just been showing to Bilbo back into the stack. “Of course,” he says.

“Do you know why Smaug always wears this shirt?”

This makes the older man hesitate, despite an immediate response stumbling half-formed out of his mouth. He straightens a little, as he always does when something puzzles him, and he glances up, just a touch, as if expecting the contents of his mind to be splattered across the ceiling for him to examine.

Eventually, he relents and shakes his head.

“Think about it,” Bilbo whispers, easing Smaug into one of the chairs, taking the one beside him. “Half of the house is filled with either furniture or clothes, yet he wears nothing new, nothing different.” He drops his gaze, letting his eyes follow the swerve lines on the floor tiles, the smudges that might be blood. “It’s because he trusts me.”

Thorin shifts his weight to his left foot, cocks his head. “Trusts you? Half the time he doesn’t even recognize you.”

Bilbo bites his lip. “No, I know it’s trust, and the shirt proves it. You see, for hoarders, there’s nowhere safer for their most precious things than on their person. If my gift meant nothing to him, he would have just added it to his piles, stashed it in his hoard, but instead he keeps it close, like he’s afraid if he turns around it’ll just be gone.” Standing now, he softens his voice, softens it edge. “I can’t make the house presentable in four days, but maybe I can make it show enough progress to buy us more time. You wouldn’t have brought me in to help you if you didn’t think I could do something.”

There’s something in Thorin’s expression, something Bilbo can almost just read, but at the last second it’s gone, like a light on the water in the dead of night. He doesn’t say anything, not at first, but then he smiles, that tiny tugging at the edge of his lips.

“Dinner?”

“Six.”

“I’ll let them know.”

As he turns to go, Bilbo catches his arm. Only, he’s a heartbeat too slow, so instead he takes Thorin’s hand, his fingers hot on the lawyer’s palm. He wants to thank him, but something changes his mind and he just nods. When Thorin disappears through another set of doors, Bilbo takes Smaug by the arm and leads him out of the station, both as silent as moths before a dying flame.

 

/

 

In the car outside the restaurant, Smaug leans his head against the window and fogs it with his breath, writing incoherent words on the glass and watching it fade before repeating the process. It’s an absentminded action, dictated only by whims that come and go, but Bilbo analyzes each movement like his life depends on it, like the secret he’s looking for is in plain sight but he just can’t make it out.

“This is really important,” he says again, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. Smaug can’t see that, but if the youth notices anything at all he gives no indication. “You just have to prove to this man that you can handle yourself. Just…be careful. Can you do that? For me?”

Smaug turns at that, and suddenly there’s a glimmer of gold around the irises of his eyes. It’s rather mischievous.

“I do what I want,” he says.

“What I want is what you want,” Bilbo counters. He reaches across the space between them and straightens Smaug’s shirt collar, smooths down the plaits on his sleeves, the cuffs at his wrists. “Help yourself here.”

With that they both push out onto the street, crossing the busy road together at the crosswalk. They bypass the line with a single mention of Thorin’s name, and are seated upstairs in the heart of the crowded tables, forced to dodge waiters and waitresses like bullets in a war reenactment.

Surprisingly, they’re the first to arrive, so Bilbo seats Smaug with his back to the stairwell, his face to the balconies. The night is young, but the moon is already out, casting a feeble ray of light onto the floor, shadows dashing around like reflections in a water fountain. Already Smaug is clearly uncomfortable; he loosens the collar of his shirt from around his neck and fiddles with the buttons on his jacket. Bilbo steadies him with a few words, rubbing his arm in time to the gentle tolling of the clock across the room. Smaug calms just as Thorin arrives, but the person on his arm immediately unsettles him again.

The woman is tall, taller even than Thorin, and her hair is as golden as the sun. Although Bilbo knows his field, he can’t help but admire how beautiful she is, radiant like no one else in the room. She catches him staring and smiles, but the coldness in her eyes makes him look away. Thorin takes the seat across from him, his own expression as guarded as ever, but clearly he’s frowning, if only just from a single line on his forehead.

“Mr. Baggins, Smaug, if I could introduce you to Galadriel.”

She shakes Bilbo’s hand first but Smaug’s twice as long, studying every detail of his face, his eyes, his hands. “Pleased,” she says, her voice like marble.

“Echoed,” Smaug says, oblivious to how hard he’s trying not to look at her. Suddenly his plate is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, and he traces the design with his finger, nudging Bilbo with his foot as his way of expressing discomfort.

In an effort to draw attention away from him, Bilbo strikes up a casual conversation with Galadriel, watching her watch Smaug, watching her occasionally write something down in a notepad from her purse. “I’d be lying if I said we were expecting you,” he says, pouring wine into her glass. “Thorin had mentioned—”

“I volunteered at the last moment,” Galadriel says, taking the cup between her index and middle finger. “I admit to being curious. You’re very well known for your work, Mr. Baggins, and Smaug seems to be quite…” she eyes him, “a special case.”

The delivery of food calms the air, but soon it’s not enough. Smaug won’t really eat, and every time someone nearby gets up from their table or a waiter moves past he can’t stop himself from looking around, trying to find the sound, lean away from it. After a while it just looks like he’s dancing in his seat, swaying to drums no one else can hear. Bilbo does his best, leading him into the conversation with questions they discussed in the car, with questions he knows he can answer, but Smaug is hardly responsive, even to simple prompts.

Desperate, Bilbo begins to answer for him, knowing Galadriel can see through the technique but unwilling to give up nevertheless. She nods when she’s supposed to, inquires for more when she must, but mostly she just listens, her blue eyes always moving, always searching.

Thorin is very, very quiet. Once in a while he answers a question directed directly at him, but otherwise he just eats. He cuts his meat into small pieces, cleans inch after inch of his plate, and when it’s empty he just sits back and drinks, a little of this, a little of that. Twice he orders another bottle for the table, even when the other isn’t finished yet, and the vintages are so outrageously expensive that even Bilbo can’t help but take the occasional taste. 

Galadriel, on the other hand, never seems to pause, but somehow she makes her way through her meal too, and most of her notepad as well.

When the clock strikes eight, Bilbo excuses himself. He’s hesitant to leave Smaug alone, but he knows that unless Smaug can prove he can handle himself this dinner will amount to nothing. To his surprise though, Thorin decides to accompany him.

The air outside the resturant is chilly, but the breeze is gentle against Bilbo’s cheek, like silk. Thorin leans against the wall beside him, his body mostly hidden by shadow. He folds his arms, his eyes to the moon, and slowly patches of skin rendered vulnerable to the light becomes apparent.

Bilbo tells himself not to stare. After all, it’s hardly professional, even if they had been more than just work associates. But Thorin’s neck is smooth and angular, his chest straining the buttons of his white shirt. His side profile is elongated by the shadows, making him seem taller, more imposing, more elusive. He’s still shockingly handsome, no matter how much time they spend together. The thought makes Bilbo’s heart flutter.

“Do you think he has a chance?” Bilbo finally asks, hoping to shatter his own rising awareness of the man at his side. “Realistically?”

“She’s tough,” Thorin replies after a moment, “but she likes you, and I think that might be enough.”

“And if it’s not?”

The question hangs there, in the cool night air, like a thread torn free from a flag. They’re both quiet for a long time.

Then, “Bilbo, can I ask you something?”

Bilbo turns, almost worried.

“Of course.”

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll give up. I may have hired you, but I know a mistake when I see it. This case will kill you, and I refuse to be responsible for that.”

And then there’s nothing. Thorin walks back inside, leaving Bilbo alone, emotions tangled inside him like his sheets had been around his legs. Part of him almost wants to feel moved at Thorin’s concern, at his honesty, but the other, larger part wants to smack him. What in the world is his problem? What part of this story isn’t he sharing? Why even ask for his help if he truly believes Smaug is beyond his abilities to save?

Still dumbstruck, he’s unprepared for Galadriel’s sudden arrival, her serene and joyless aura making Bilbo shrink even smaller. He braces now, braces for her explanation on why she’s failed Smaug, why he needs to be sent away. Why Bilbo can do nothing.

Instead, she touches his arm, careful, considerate.

There’s a pause.

“He’s gone,” she says. And that’s all.


	4. To Become Less Than Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt...suddenly inspired, I guess--I have no other explanation for this chapter. I'm sorry it's been such a long time between updates, and I can't really promise another anytime soon, but for those of you who left comments or kudos, thank you. <3

Africanis Park is wild and overgrown, unkept like a jungle on an abandoned island. The shrubbery pulls at Bilbo's clothes, branches and thorns tearing at what lies in reach; the heat here helps nothing, thick and sticky like the bottom of a bog, heavy like the years that cling to ailing muscles. Bilbo knows he's a fool for coming here, a fool for trying to brave the wilderness that struggles so vehemently against him, but he's too determined to give up. This is the last place, the last place he can think to search; after this, he has nothing.

The wind finally picks up almost twenty minutes later, crawling through the leaves and slipping, sluggish and warm, across Bilbo's exposed skin. He shivers, hating the touch, but shrugs off his discomfort. It could be worse, he thinks, flinching at the crunch of brittle wood beneath his feet, the slosh of polluted water as it seeps in through the soles of his shoes. Yes, it could always be worse.

Off in the distance, perhaps to his left, Bilbo catches the barest whisper of someone singing. The sound is weaving, up and down, soft and loud, happy and sad, beautiful in the way the ocean might be to a landlocked soldier. There's colour, and melody, almost a dialogue between three people—a call, an answer, an echo. It's a stunning piece, really, and for a while Bilbo forgets where he is, what he's searching for. Unless...

Bilbo hurries towards the sound, drawn to it like a dying man. The park tries to hold him back, as if desperate to keep the music all to itself, but Bilbo is insistent, pushing on, pushing forward, pushing ahead. The music starts up again, and as he gets closer, Bilbo realizes it isn't singing at all—it's a violin, the notes sharp and lilting, the strings handled with elegance and mastery.

At last he gets close, close enough the park begins to relent, to give in, to let him through. He manages to stop himself only a breath from the source of the sound, the thinnest wall of leaves and foliage between him and the musician; another step and the mystery will shatter, shards of glass in the wind like flower petals on the outbreak of spring. He waits, waits for the music to pick up, to rise in tempo, to climb towards the stars. It's then, and only then, that he dares edge forward.

The glade is beautiful, twisted and wound like a great ball of string, the grass crisp with rain, the air light with the smell of morning dew. Smaug stands alone amidst it all, his back to the horizon, his eyes closed as if in sleep. The youth's hands move without him, only a flash in the brilliant glow of the brightening sunlight, his face empty of effort, his body relaxed with peace and balance. He could almost be a completely different man, elevated to an unmarked stage of pure excellence, his grace and prestige like nothing Bilbo has ever witnessed before. He's stunning, undeniably so, his music so wondrous it could hardly— _hardly_ —be real.

There is no sense of time, no sense of movement, only a lulling, gentle and rhythmic. When Smaug eventually releases the final note, the world quiets again. He puts down his instrument, his lips parted slightly, breathlessly, and his eyes find Bilbo like he's been there all along, like the performance has been meant for him and him alone. Smaug speaks his name, carefully and slowly, like the letters are foreign and alien on his tongue. "Bilbo," he says.

All at once the last of the magic dissipates, Smaug's knees buckling with a quickness that stops even his own hands from catching him. On his knees, his arms at his sides, his violin in the grass, he calls out again. "Bilbo," he says. "Bilbo."

Despite his years of experience, years of training, Bilbo feels ill-prepared to handle this, to handle much of anything, really. He just stares for a long time, words half-formed and still-born on his tongue. What is there to say, in the face of such genius? In the face of such a masterpiece?

When his senses return, he finds Smaug on his feet again, his expression expectant now, curious. "You okay?" He asks in a whisper, laughter caught tight in the space between his breaths. "Home now?"

Bilbo reaches for Smaug's hand, pulling him close until he can wrap his arms around the youth's bony body. "No," he whispers in reply. "I don't want you to go home." He hesitates half a beat, reconsidering his decision, steeling himself. "I want you to come home with me, instead. Is that okay?"

Smaug shifts in Bilbo's arms, nuzzling his face against the shorter man's neck. "Kay," he says. "Home."

/

Bilbo's apartment building is nondescript, at best; it's a simple slab of towering concrete, perched on the edge of a hill, with windows and cars and lights and noise. Smaug dislikes the sudden incline, the sudden sharpness of the rising road, so he clings to his seatbelt like a mountain climber his emergency line, his long fingers squeezing the fabric so tightly his fingernails press through and leave half-moon imprints on his palms. It's not the height, Bilbo is sure—there were probably mounds in his horde that were taller then this—but clearly something unsettled the youth, maybe even frightened him. Bilbo thought to ask, but Smaug seemed so unwilling, folded in on himself against the seat back; maybe later, then.

Smaug likes the doorway into Bilbo's apartment no more then the hill, or the stairs, or the security guard, his hands forever skimming over the ridges in the wood, his eyes locked on details no one else could see. He talks to himself, under his breath, his words tangling in his shaky exhales, the letters smothering themselves on his lips. He's tense but not unsteady, anxious but not uncomfortable; with no idea of what to make of this, Bilbo is forced to wait ten minutes, twenty, an hour, until at last the youth is ready, talking a single step back with a confident nod to no one. Bilbo reaches for his hand, obvious in his movement, careful, gentle, and Smaug lets him take it.

The guest room is at the back of the complex, through the kitchen, small living room, and past the fully renovated bathroom. There's dust on the bedside table, no lightbulb in either floor lamp, and the paint on the walls almost seems to elongate in the darkness, long swathes of pale whiteness dripping onto the floor like reaching hands trapped within the incoming tide of the ocean. Smaug takes to the room, with a quickness Bilbo wants desperately to believe, and after throwing himself onto the bed for a moment, hurries to the window.

The view from this floor is panoramic, the horizon swallowed behind acres of skyscrapers, electrical towers, even the odd tree. The city bustles soundlessly with life, caught behind the thick glass of the window, and Smaug drags his fingers on the pane like he's trying to trace the outline into his memory. There's very nearly a sense of nostalgia on Smaug's face, curious and honest, but Bilbo knows better then to try and interrupt that with questions he can always ask later.

But later never comes, for this question or any other. Bilbo makes Smaug a light lunch, of eggs and bread and ham and cheese, gives him a tour of the otherwise operational apartment, then surprises himself by convincing the youth to get back in the car. "We'll go back to the house," he says, "pack up some things, a box or two, so you'll be more comfortable here. Do you think you can do that?"

Smaug does nothing to hide the truth on his tongue. "No," he says. "But for you, I try."

That response comforts Bilbo, enough to make him turn up the radio, even roll down the window. This is the progress, subtle and gradual, that he'd been hoping to see for weeks. At last, after more persistence then Bilbo thought he was capable, he might actually be able to get somewhere.

Three blocks from his apartment, however, his cell-phone rings, shattering the calm in the car like a gunshot would a crowded stretch of downtown. Smaug turns his face away, looking again for the window, the distance, and doesn't ever look back.

The caller ID flashes in faint green light, Thorin's name proud and stern against Bilbo's hand. He answers, of course, but he's almost reluctant.

"Where are you?" The lawyer asks, allowing the pleasantries to pass back and forth no longer than necessary. There's a brief pause, insistent and urging, before he just answers his own question. "You're going back to the house, I suppose."

Bilbo recognizes this tone, this mood, the exasperation, the exhaustion. "I wouldn't do that without telling you," he lies, taking a left at the next stoplight. He shouldn't have pulled over, but he does; Smaug uses that opportunity to get out of the car. "I, oh god wait, I'm sorry, hang on."

Bilbo puts down the phone and reaches for Smaug, too late to stop him. "House," the youth says, pointing off down the street. "You soon."

The refusal shows on Bilbo's face, pulls at his jaw, but he relents because Smaug is not a child, because Smaug has survived the last three days, on his own, somehow, and if nothing else has proven he will, always, do just enough to stay alive. And it's only for a few blocks.

"I'll be there in an hour," he promises, but already Smaug is slipping off down the sidewalk, his too-thin shoulders emphasized by the looseness of his grey shirt, his ankles peaking out under his worn and weathered jeans. Cursing, bitterly, Bilbo puts the phone back to ear.

"We...we need to talk, Thorin," Bilbo manages, doing his best to keep his voice steady. "Can you meet me on Publius Avenue? In twenty minutes?"

The lawyer hesitates for a long moment, evidently annoyed, but eventually, quietly, relents.

/

In an effort to limit his client's alarm—and soothe away some of his own, quite truthfully—Bilbo chooses to meet Thorin at his neighborhood cafe, the aged wood and brewing coffee beans a welcome change to the unruly violence of Africanis Park. He's more nervous then he has any right to be, his hands restless, his heart-rate an insistent pitter-patter against his ribs; in the quiet of the tiny shop, the noise is almost unbearable. He orders his coffee with hardly a sound, to compensate, but the hiss of the machine, the twinkling of the water, muddles his state of mind even further, demanding attention, demanding relief.

Taking out his notebook, Bilbo starts jotting down his thoughts. His hand is preteen, exact in a way that might rival a calligrapher, but his words are jumbled, almost nonsense. After a while the letters give way to shapes, the shapes to arches, the arches to loops, until suddenly he's doodling absentmindedly all across the page, animals leaping as if to life from the tip of his pencil. He's distracted, so much so he misses the arrival of Thorin's sports car, the chatter within the shop that accompanies it, the stares, the laughter. Maybe he'd never have noticed, never have looked up, had it not been for the gentle nudging of the barista, her teasing smile anything but unkind.

"A rich man this time, eh Bilbo?" She chides, carefully filling a tall ceramic mug to the rim with rich, dark brown coffee. "Oh, you always pick the handsome ones."

Bilbo laughs, struggling to hide his embarrassment behind a placating gesture. "He's not my date, don't say that to him." But his light flush must give him away, his nerves, his stammer, because the barista just winks with the playfulness of disbelief.

A tiny golden bell, cracked but intact, announces Thorin's presence, the open door letting in a chilly breath of afternoon wind. The lawyer's hair is ruffled, a stark contrast to his usual coiffed look, and coupled with his button-up and jeans, the slight rise of his collarbone just visible through his open collar, it’s all Bilbo can do to stop himself from staring. But…he does, he does anyway, because he can’t help it, because he’s never been able to help it. 

They choose a table at the back of the café, the stains on the polished wood giving character to an otherwise unremarkable piece of furniture. Bilbo sits first, his hands trembling just out of sight, his eyes wandering now over freshly revealed skin as Thorin slides out of his jacket to bare his arms up to the elbows. Their meeting has quickly become too casual, too unprofessional—what is this? What has it become?  
Thorin takes a moment to settle into his chair, draping his jacket carefully across the back; he looks stressed, despite his nonchalance, and his eyes betray an agitation his warm smile does little to offset. "I'll take you've found him," he says, his voice tired.

Bilbo fidgets, not afraid, or anxious, or worried, but something else, something stronger. "I have,” he replies, keeping his tone as light as possible. “And he seems alright, considering."

Thorin nods at this, relief showing through only in his hands; if he notices how uncomfortable Bilbo has become, he doesn’t mention it. "We don't have much time," he says, taking a moment to order a coffee. "The city's coming by tomorrow afternoon for the inspection."

To comfort him, or maybe comfort them both, Bilbo walks Thorin through how he plans to handle that. As he does, he pauses occasionally to find confidence in the familiar background of the coffee shop, the weathered books stacked high against the back wall, the peeling trail of paint under the bay windows. When the moment finally comes, sudden and all at once, Bilbo speaks with a strength that surprises him, with a courage that—at least to some degree—visibly impresses them both.

Thorin, not unsurprisingly, takes the news poorly, if poorly can quite capture the depth of the sentiment. In the tiny coffee shop, his clear agitation stands out with the violence of blood against an empty meadow, white flowers drowning in a sea of red. "Are you sure this is the right decision?" He demands, his face slightly obscured by the river of steam rising off his cup. "He's dangerous, he's unstable. He could hurt you."

While Bilbo accepts this fear, this concern—is almost touched by it—he also finds himself a little insulted. "You didn't hear him play, Thorin," he counters, "you can't even begin to imagine the talent he has." Bilbo shakes his head, still dimly mystified. "You can’t hide that kind of thing behind a wall of oversized clothes and broken furniture, and maybe, if he realizes that, it’ll help him recover from this. He's just..." Bilbo hesitates, choosing his words with care. "He's a genius."

Doubt settles with almost too much ease on Thorin's face, clouding his eyes, tightening his brow; his patience lingers, but only in the presence of Bilbo's enthusiasm. "If you say so," he manages, his heavy sigh laced with distrust. "Just be careful, okay? Please?"

Bilbo isn't sure what to make of this response, the signals too mixed, too confused. Is Thorin's worry genuine, like his anger, or veiling a subtle threat, like his advice? Unsure, Bilbo only manages to nod in response, a gesture Thorin—though quick to return—does so almost unwillingly.

That should have been the end of that, the animosity left unresolved, the tension, as always, left undiscussed—but one of them reaches out, just then. One hand, one touch. There's words, whispers, murmurs like new-fallen snow; there's an argument, fierce and violent, sudden and unplanned; there's consolation, quick and fleeting. Then there's something else, something more.

Somewhere, sometime between, the shop had emptied of everyone but them; somewhere, sometime between, the phone rang out from back kitchens and the barista hurried away; somewhere, sometime between, both Thorin and Bilbo sprang to their feet, closed to distance, closed the distance.

This is the moment where everything changes, where the world tilts and turns and twists and dances, and in a flash there is passion and hunger, danger and regret. But then there are eyes, eyes and hands and uneven breath that turns with lightning quickness from fire to ice. There are two silhouettes, close and intertwined, and then there is nothing.

/

After coffee and biscuits, talk and discussion, business and...non-business, Bilbo walks Thorin across the street to his car. There's wind, light and wispy, and just the faintest scent of rain, tangled in the thick, long shadows that colour the sidewalk. They're quiet for a long moment, staring here, there, the sky, the earth, until finally Thorin just sighs and waves Bilbo away.

"I'll see you at the house," he says. "I'll...help Smaug pack."

There is no time for Bilbo to respond, to so much as flinch at the unexpected offer, before Thorin backs up from the curb and drives off like a phantom ship the open sea. In a split second he's gone, an early peal of thunder burying the sound of his ignition; there's nothing more to do, nothing left to be done, so Bilbo silently staggers away.

He tries, he really does, but he never makes it to his car. Just half a block from the coffee shop, just outside the view of the large, floor-to-ceiling windows, Bilbo slips down onto the ground and sits on his knees. He's confused, frustrated, maybe even angry, but more than anything he just wants to run, run until he can escape the heavy smell of Thorin Oakenshield as it settles against his skin, escape the distant, lingering heat of his touch, and maybe, just maybe, learn to forget the feeling of unvoiced promises pressed along his jaw, of the barest brush of desperate lips against his throat.


End file.
